Going
by emmiemac
Summary: Sandor Clegane flees King's Landing after deserting the Kingsguard and the Battle of the Blackwater. Violence, sex, profanity.
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: This story is entirely based on character[s] from George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire

**GOING**

_Away from here. Away from the fires. Go out the Iron Gate, I suppose. North somewhere, anywhere._

Even this far from the Mud Gate and the Red Keep, the smoke and smell of the fires were heavy in the air.

Sandor bent over Stranger's neck as the horse galloped towards the Iron Gate, and he peered ahead into the dark distance.

Only two.

Mayhaps the Imp had called more men away to ride off into a fiery death on the Blackwater or more likely he was not the night's first deserter, only the most recognizable.

"Make way!" he called, "Make way on the king's orders!"

They must have known him for he saw one guard turn away to lift the bar over the gate as another stepped into the road and lazily raised a hand to stop him, expecting him to rein his mount and identify himself and explain his purpose.

_The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he's on fire._

He slowed Stranger to a canter, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword, and as soon as the guard stepped further into the road, he drew it and savagely slashed his throat before the man could even think to reach for his own sword. He did for the other guard before he had even fully turned around and, again kicking Stranger to gallop, was through the Iron Gate before the bastard hit the ground.

Sandor Clegane fled King's Landing without a backward glance or regret or thought to just how easy it had been. Had he thought of it, he may have snorted a scornful laugh. But he had no thought but one.

_Away_.


	2. Chapter 2

Under cover of darkness, he rode the road to Rosby. The way was clear since the Queen had shut up the city gates, with no commons fleeing away nor merchants headed for the markets in King's Landing. No fool would take the road towards siege or slaughter, and it could be days or even a fortnight before Stannis' men had finished sacking the city. Then the merchants would return to make even more profit off the misery of others than they had since the war had started. Since food had stopped being harvested and brought in from the Riverlands, Rosby's merchants had grown fat on the starvation of King's Landing.

Sandor had no care for the matter, other than that the road should remain free so that he could travel unimpeded and unrecognized. Not that it mattered much yet, there would be more important matters for King Stannis to attend to than deserters from the Lannister forces, even one of the Kingsguard.

Stannis was no Robert, prepared to pardon him and want him for his own guard; but neither was Sandor Barristan Selmy whom Robert had so famously seen tended by his own maester when he was wounded on the Trident. He had his own peculiar sense of honour, Robert's brother, even punishing the smuggler who had lifted the siege of Storm's End by running in food by the sea, slipping past the blockade and braving the treacherous coast of the Stormlands. The Onion Knight they called him: cut off his finger joints and raised him to knighthood the same day. Sandor didn't think he would escape Stannis' particular justice, nor did he care to dwell on just what part of him he might choose to shorten if he discovered that, among his other crimes, he had laid hands on the previous king's betrothed in her bedchamber. He did give a passing snort at the thought.

He brought Stranger to a halt and stared hard down the road to the horizon and thought he could see the first shades of blue and purple in the black sky that would signal the onset of the dawn. He wondered fleetingly who else was alive to see this new day.

_Little bird._

Stannis would not let her be harmed, not a high-born maiden: he'd have gelded any man who dared touch her. At least she would no longer be at the mercy of Joffrey and his brothers of the Kingsguard. Mayhaps her kingly brother would bend the knee and she would be sent North, or at worst she would be married to some grim and dutiful noble in Stannis' service.

"She'll never sing for you again, dog," he rasped bitterly to himself. He wondered if she would ever have reason to sign again. He decided he did not want to think of her; instead he leaned forward and patted Stranger's neck. "Wherever we're going…it's just you and me, boy."

The horse nickered and turned his head towards him as he dismounted with a groan. Sandor took a few steps and stretched his head back as he hastily unlaced his breeches enough to free his cock for a piss. His head was beginning to pound already and, as accustomed as he was to the wine-sweat, he knew he would suffer for how much he drank after walking away from the Imp inside the Mud Gate.

"A-ahh…seven buggering hells," he breathed as he shut his eyes. He snapped them open again quickly when he heard rustling and the shuffling of feet. He spun to dimly see a man dart out from the brush on the other side of the road; even in the faintest light he could make out the glint of his blade.

"I'm taking your horse," he said, his voice quavering, "and you'll not move or I'll hack your _cock off_."

Sandor didn't move, though is mouth twitched: he knew what would happen if the fool tried to mount Stranger.

The clumsy idiot could barely get his foot in the stirrup before Stranger reared and kicked, sending his would-be abductor to the ground with a hard cry. Sandor heard the clank of steel hitting the ground and quickly brought his boot down on the blade; then he drew his own sword.

"M-mercy," the man on the ground pleaded now.

"Like you were going to show my cock?" Sandor rasped and opened his throat with a swift slash.

He heard the man's faint groan and the gurgle of his last breath before approaching and nudging him over with his boot. Then he resumed urinating in the road before tucking his member back into his breeches. Finally he bent over the dead man and began searching him. He found no coin or dagger, but pulled a small ring from his finger. He would examine it later.

"You haven't much, have you?" Sandor sneered. No armour, no other weapons: not a deserter, likely a commons who had fled the fighting or feared it approaching. He had a cloak though, and so Sandor turned him over and pulled it from his body. It was dark and hooded and had no sigil that he could see. He tossed it over the saddle of his horse and bent again to drag the body out of the road before kicking it over several times into the brush.

"Back where you came then," he muttered disdainfully.

Stranger nickered again when Sandor approached him and draped the cloak around his shoulders. As he mounted he realized his head felt much clearer. He chuckled darkly.

"Let's go, boy." He turned his heels into the horse's flanks and they continued on the road towards the now blue emerging dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor pulled up the hood of the cloak as he approached the daub and wattle huts surrounding Castle Rosby. Clearly the wealth they may have garnered since feeding King's Landing had not yet improved their circumstances since, to his eye, many of the shabby huts could have been felled by one of their sickly lord's coughing fits. He saw a barefoot boy carrying a bucket and called to him.

"Boy! Where can a man get food and drink?"

The boy turned and pointed in the direction of more huts. "Th'big'un wit' bann'rs and a stable."

Sandor nodded and turned his horse in the direction indicated. Commons were moving about, drawing water from wells and gathering eggs to judge from the scattered squawking of hens. His large size and big horse drew glances but no real interest. He left Stranger outside the larger hut, handing a copper to a boy to feed and water him.

The inside was small and dim, winesink or pot shop, it was no worse than he had seen in King's Landing and stunk less; best: it was empty. He sat at one of the scarred tables, pinching more coppers from his purse and slapping them on the tabletop.

"Bread," he rasped, "eggs if you got'em; porridge if you don't. Wine if you have; ale if you don't."

The man set a tankard of ale within reach. "Comin' from King's Landin'?" he asked Sandor.

Sandor shook his head "Gates are shut. Went to find my sister but it's locked up like a septa's smallclothes."

"Mother protect 'er," the man mumbled. "Lord Rosby's a' court. No raven a' th'castle yet, they're sayin'."

_They're likely all roasted as is your weak lord if he didn't die of his bloody cough choking from the smoke and fires._

Sandor tore apart the fresh bread and considered his situation. Stannis may not realize he had fled; it was very possible that he was thought dead on the Blackwater, especially if there were no one alive to tell anyone different. The guards at the Iron Gate would tell no tales, and only the little bird knew of his plan to leave. He remembered the white cloak he had left in her room. How would she explain it; or would she have the sense to hide or burn it, like she burned her bed sheets after her first moon's blood. He wondered if she hated him enough to tell Stannis that he had deserted, or send them after him for threatening her.

"Too scared, most likely," he heard himself say.

"What's that you're needin'?" The man had come back.

"Food to travel," Sandor replied, looking down into his bowl. "Bread, dried meat, cheese and fruit if you got'em, and a skin of ale: wrap'em up." He turned his palm over to show the man a silver. "Is there a wench? And not a hag either."

He man coughed awkwardly. "Aye, out back. I'll have to wake her…"

"Do that," he growled. After a moment he followed him out the back. There was a privy nearby from the smell but the man gestured to a small room that leaned against the larger hut. Inside he could see a young woman sitting up in bed and rubbing her eyes. She had messy, straw-coloured hair and a rumpled shift.

"Don't bother getting up," he told her, as the closed door shut out the morning light, "just turn over."

"In a hurry, big man?" she yawned.

"Travelling," he told her shortly, "and I haven't bathed." He didn't want her to see his face, not that whores wanted to look at him, nor remove the armour beneath his cloak, under which he had hidden his tourney purse with the last of his gold dragons.

"They ne'er do," she muttered as she rolled over and began pulling up her shift. She had a white bottom, round and firm, that he squeezed roughly before pushing her knees further apart and leaning over her, one large hand over her pale head on the bed. He closed his eyes and thrust in, his other hand grasping her hip. The wench whimpered and gasped.

"Y'are a big man for true," she gritted out.

He chuckled. "Aye: once jousted without a lance."

"Oo, bet all th'maids dreamt o'tyin' their favour on ye'."

Sandor had a fleeting image of his last tourney and pushed the memory aside. He thrust harder instead.

The wench pushed back. "Tha's it, tha's it, big man," she breathed.

He gripped her shoulders tightly and groaned his release, feeling the tension leave his body. "He's got your coin," he told the girl gruffly, pulling away. "Go back to sleep."

The room was empty as Sandor went in the back way though he spotted the tied bundle on the table nearest the door. There were many voices out front and they were growing louder. Stepping outside, he saw a young man with the badge of House Rosby on his tunic. The man who had served him stepped forward.

"Good news, Ser: King's Landing saved. Lord Tywin and the Lord o' the Reach com'in to save off Lord Stannis. King Joffrey sits the Iron throne still. Yer sister'd be safe, thank the Mother."

Sandor went cold all over. "Aye. The Mother," he repeated dully. "Best be leaving, then," he told the man and turned towards the stable for Stranger.

_Fuck._


	4. Chapter 4

Mounted on Stranger, Sandor slowly made his way back through the village to the road leading to King's Landing. Another direction may have attracted unwanted curiosity. His horse tossed his head and snorted repeatedly, sensing his rider's tension, but still Sandor made him walk and then only allowed him to trot once they were clear of the huts.

Once he knew he was out of sight and that the road was still empty, Sandor dismounted Stranger and, taking the reins firmly, led him off the road into the brush. The horse was jittery now and he did not want him trying to fight him on uneven ground.

"I can't leave you behind too," he told him gruffly.

He would find a trail and mount up again to double back wide around Rosby and then head towards Duskendale and the coast as quickly as travelling paths and woods would allow. Just when he needed to travel quickly, he would have to lose time to avoid meeting other travelers or, worse, any soldiers. Once he reached a port, he would seek passage on a ship if it were not too late to escape unnoticed.

Thank the Mother, the idiotic man had said, smiling at him. He grit his teeth and twisted his lip bitterly.

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy…_

_Fuck._

_Fuck Tywin Lannister and the Imp and fuck Cersei and that craven little shit Joffrey. Fuck Stannis and his bloody Onion Knight. Fuck the little bird and fuck me too. _

Sandor cursed and cursed. Cursed the little bird for not looking at him and for not coming with him. Cursed himself for not having bound and gagged her and taken her with him whether she wanted or not. She'd be Joffrey's now and…

_Fuck._

She had better have burned the damned cloak. If she had been found to have known of his desertion, Joffrey would lay more accusations of treason against her and have her beaten bloody for it too; might be he'd have her head this time.

"Fuck," he raged.

It almost came out a ragged sob. He could only picture the little bird, pale and delicate in her soft silks, kneeling as Ilyn Payne, silent and grim and terrifying, stood over her and swung her father's greatsword to remove her lovely head. And the boy king looking on, enjoying her fear and her tears.

No, he realized with sudden relief; not with Jaime Lannister still held by the young wolf. Tywin Lannister would never permit it, would not allow Joffrey to risk the life of his only whole son. Lord Tywin may actually protect the little bird even better than the Imp had. She was his only hostage equal to the Kingslayer. Her life was safe. But his own head, Sandor knew, would be a very different matter entirely.

Lord Tywin had taken him in as squire for his house as a boy, raised him to his daughter's shield and from there he became Joffrey's shield and made Kingsguard, without needing the usually required knighthood. A man who would raze houses and ruin families for defiance would not let his own dog desert his king without wanting to make example of him. He could almost hear _Rains of Castamere_ here in the silent woods.

Despite the still cool morning air and walking beneath the shade of trees, Sandor began to sweat under his armour and cloak. The old lion would put a price on his head, and it would needs be a large one to tempt lesser men to risk facing the fearsome Hound of Westeros. But Tywin Lannister shit gold, they said, and Sandor had seen the wealth of Casterly Rock as a young man. The promise of gold always made men think they were braver than they truly were. But Sandor knew it would not make them better fighters than him; more likely it would make them reckless as they came after his head. Sandor sneered vilely in contempt.

"Let them try," he rasped.

Stranger tossed his head again and Sandor stroked his neck to soothe him. "Easy now, we'll get where we're going, boy."

Where we're going: he didn't really know where they were going anymore. He'd hinted to the little bird that he'd be going North. He'd thought she'd be more like to leave with him if she believed he'd take her home to her family. But he'd only wanted to keep her with him, to keep her safe. He'd promised to keep her safe and to kill for her and she'd closed her eyes tightly and been scared of him, still. Would she be safer now?

Joffrey was still king. The little bird was still his betrothed and would be his queen, his wife. Lord Tywin could keep her from the executioner but he could not keep her from Joffrey's bed. She would never be safe again. She would never sing again. Sandor spat.

"Should have cut her fucking throat," he rasped bitterly.


	5. Chapter 5

It was past midday when Sandor had to increasingly fight to keep from nodding off in the saddle. He decided to finally stop and rest. He had not slept since he had briefly passed out in the little bird's bedchamber and now the desperate drive that had carried him through battle, flight, killing and having the wench before fleeing yet again was finally wearing off, leaving him ragged.

After watering Stranger and tiredly bathing himself in a clear stream, he once again led his horse by the reins to an area he found to be sufficiently wooded to hide them both.

He hobbled Stranger and removed the bit from his mouth so he could graze easily.

"We'll travel at night, boy. Best get your fill now." He patted his rump with affectionate pride.

Sandor settled under a tree with some bread and a strip of dried meat and the skin of ale. He swallowed several mouthfuls before resolutely capping it and placing it back in the sac. He would not need it to sleep, nor was he like to find any more soon if he could not approach villages or inns for some distance, so he would needs ration the ale. The sleepy wench and her firm bottom were like to be the last of that indulgence we would see in a while as well, he thought wryly.

"Have to take a hold of yourself, dog," he jeered confidingly to himself.

He squinted up through the branches at the sunlight filtering between the leaves. He would have preferred to lie in the sun to dry off and warm up after bathing but he needed to stay out of sight, and so he lifted the hood of the cloak over his damp hair and curled up under the tree with his bedroll under his head and his dagger unsheathed.

He came awake in the dark with a heart-stopping start, frantically expecting the glow of wildfire and smell of smoke heavy in the air and the rustle of the little bird returning to her chamber. When he came to his senses and sat up he could feel a breeze against his face and hear the wind rushing through the leaves of the high branches. He sniffed deeply.

"Rain," he predicted darkly.

Sandor rode wide around a looked to be a field of barley before slipping between the long rows of trees in an apple orchard. He slowed so as to pull apples randomly in the dark, adding them to his sac of provisions for himself and for Stranger, finally allowing himself a taste once he had stolen his fill. His lip twisted at the sour tartness and he wished in vain for a taste of sour red to wash it down.

The wind picked up and grew colder and in time he felt the fat raindrops falling. He drew the stolen cloak around himself and shivered at the chill. _Winter is coming_ were the words of the little bird's house, and it was clear that summer had definitely come to an end after so many years.

"Seven buggering _frozen_ hells," he rasped.

The thought of winter turned his mind once again to the North and what might be his final destination. He remembered, back when Robert was still king, the smelly little black-haired man from the Wall, who approached him in a winesink in King's Landing. He had talked on at length despite Sandor ignoring him, which made him suspect that mayhaps the Imp had put him up to trying to recruit him for the Night's Watch. Yorick, he had called himself, or was it Yoren? The others he had tried to talk with had caustically replied '_up your'n_' to his tales of brotherhood and honour in defending the realm. All the knights and sellswords knew was that it was fucking cold and there were no women, that was how much the bloody pretenders cared about honour and service.

But he had pressed Sandor, telling him that the Wall needed strong men who were fierce fighters, earning him a scornful sneer, as if Sandor were a green maid who would spread her legs in response to flattery. He could remember the rank smell and the din as he'd sat staring into the middle distance, contemplating whether he'd want a whore after finishing his flagon. He'd finally reached the end of his tolerance when the man had pointed out to Sandor that taking the vows of a sworn brother would eradicate any past crimes.

"I spit on your vows too, you filthy monkey of a man. Now back to your Wall," he'd threatened, standing to tower over him. The man had only shrugged and moved on to other prospects.

Crimes, the crooked bastard had insinuated. What crimes had Sandor committed besides being a fierce fighter, a willing soldier, a good dog? He'd made himself useful, been loyal and done as he was ordered: where these crimes? Others did the same but only he had his scarred face, Sandor knew that all too well, and knew that was his real crime in the eyes of other men. Mayhaps if he'd been a handsome knight, a man like the little bird dreamt about, then he's be a fucking hero like Barristan the Bold. Selmy had fled King's Landing, as he had, though he'd been relieved of his place in the Kingsguard. But the old knight likely had family and friends to take him in and shelter him, to help him to exile. Whereas Sandor was condemned to being alone because of his face, because of what was done to his face.

Sandor gnashed his teeth at the injustice, though he has sore used to it by now.

Fuck if he had use for any more brothers.

The Wall would be his very last resort.


	6. Chapter 6

It rained steadily the next day as well, even while Sandor stopped to rest, lying cold and cramped on the damp ground beneath a dripping tree. When he resumed his journey at nightfall, he realized that he would have to return to the road to ford the bridge before Duskendale. There was a tall timbered inn near the bridge and so he dismounted and approached it cautiously, glad at least that the rain gave him reason to keep the hood of his cloak up without question.

As he neared the inn, he heard raucous noise and laughter and the deep, loud voices of many men. A boy came out of the stables in the dark.

"Is the inn full, boy?"

"Near full, Ser, tho' might be you'll find place by th'hearth t'sleep,"

"I'll never sleep with that din," he complained flatly, knowing he had no intention of entering. "Have you feed for my horse, at least? Best let me do it: I needs examine his hooves for stones and he bites and kicks."

The boy backed away. Sandor tossed him a silver.

"Go inside and bring me bread and cheese and skins of wine, sour red, or ale." He had a thought. "There's another silver if a wench brings it to me, and boy…if she's not comely, don't waste my coin."

He brought Stranger to the back of the stables to feed and waited. When he heard someone coming he busied himself checking his saddle and bags.

"I brung yer food and ale," a man's voice said.

Sandor half turned, showing only his unscarred side beneath the hood. Not a wench.

"Set it down," he rasped. "I'm not done with my horse."

The man carelessly tossed the sac and skins on a bench and gave a loud huff.

"There be no wenches here, d'ye hear me? 'Tis my daughters serving inside."

"I hear you, man; no harm in asking, is there?" he told him

"I don' like yer askin!'" he shouted at Sandor, "An' we're full up so be on yer way now. Or by the…"

"I'll go when I'm ready to go," Sandor told him menacingly, keeping hold of Stranger's reins.

"The likes o'ye don't scare me: there's knights a'plenty inside to defend an honest man," the innkeeper challenged him.

Sandor threw his head back and laughed. "Bloody knights," he hooted, "d'you think you're Florian's Jonquil, man? They'll not leave the hearth and their ale and your daughters to fight in the rain for an innkeeper. If I gut you, they've no accounts to settle and can have at your comely whelps, so you be on _your_ way."

The innkeeper sputtered and spat but went back to minding his business so Sandor slung the food and aleskins behind his saddle and quickly led Stranger outside. The man's empty bluster aside, he had no desire to attract any other unwanted attention, especially that of a rowdy pack of pissed knights.

He swung himself back into the saddle and cantered over the stone bridge towards the city gates before once again leaving the road and disappearing into the trees.

It was still dark when Sandor reached the top of the cliffs over-looking Duskendale though the rain had mercifully stopped. He could hear the sea and smell the salt air and see the fire burning atop the watchtower at Sharp Point on the opposite shore of Blackwater Bay. He settled under a tall pine on the edge of the forest to await the dawn and have a clear view of the harbour and what ships were in port.

Out in the dark bay was Dragonstone. Sandor wondered if Stannis had made it back to his ancient and damp Valarian stronghold to live and fight another day. It was well-known Stannis resented that he got Dragonstone when the pup Renly got Storm's End, but Stannis may have unintentionally been well-placed to succeed his king since the island was the traditional seat of the heir to the Iron throne. Stannis would never give up his claim: he would fight to the death and take everyone with him if he had too; he was as righteous as he was grim. Still, Sandor did not hold out much chance for the last Baratheon brother if Lord Tywin truly was back as Hand; he hoped fervently that the fucking Imp had died screaming from wildfire, roasted in his ridiculous dwarfish armour. If anyone could match Stannis for grim determination it was the old lion, and he had more gold than most all the other lords of Westeros combined, though from his stony face it didn't look to make him any happier than any piss-poor wretch in Flea Bottom…mayhaps less.

His opinion was soon confirmed as soon as the sun rose and he could see tents pitched outside the walls and within around the city's keep, the Dun Fort, an idiotic name to Sandor's mind: why not call it Shit Heap Keep and be done with it, he had always mused sourly. He stood and looked over the city, his stormy eyes narrowed under his heavy brow. Many of the tents were crimson though he could also see banners that looked to be House Tarly and House Tyrell as well. The armies of the Reach were swarming on Duskendale, with more men marching today if those knights crowding the inn had slept off their drink. Mayhaps they meant to attack and finish Stannis on Dragonstone but Sandor did not see many ships in the port, unless they were sailing up from the Reach.

Whatever their battle plans, Sandor knew he could not stay to find out: he could not enter Duskendale, much less seek passage on a ship. He could never go unrecognized now, nor out-fight whole armies no matter how much he may feel like trying. He cursed silently and moved on.


	7. Chapter 7

The way North through the forest was damp and smelled of pine needles. Sandor stayed hidden whilst still close to Duskendale but returned to the road where it forked towards Maidenpool once the grey skies threatened more rain.

He knew the ruins of the Hollard castle would offer shelter while he rested again, and then he could perchance ride the road at night to Maidenpool or Saltpans and find a ship to take him North or to the Free Cities. He would needs make good time, for he realized that the forces gathering at Duskendale mayhaps would turn to march into the Riverlands if the Young Wolf returned North to recapture his lost kingdom. Sandor had fought the Ironborn during the Greyjoy Rebellion: he knew they were fierce fighters yet they had been beaten and doubtless would be again. They were sea raiders and had not the numbers to subjugate the North, but neither did the Stark boy have the numbers to keep his hold on the Riverlands and reclaim Winterfell. Despite his surprising victories in his war against Lord Tywin, the Young Wolf was now the King Who Lost the North. Sandor knew that if he turned back now and exhausted his soldiers fighting the Greyjoy pretender's army, he had no hope of rescuing the little bird in time from her fate as Joffrey's queen.

He led Stranger into the ruins, finding an inner chamber with its roof intact. He could not risk a fire this close to the road but he would at least be dry. After feeding his horse an apple from the sac of provisions, he settled in a corner on his bedroll.

Joffrey's queen, he thought bitterly: hardly an honour for any lass but a bloody torment for the little bird.

_Wait until your king gets his hands on you; that will be some rough business. How he loves to see you cry, to hear you beg mercy. Well, you'll get none from him, it's what makes the little shit hard. He'll probably have you beaten first so he can enjoy the bruises on your sweet flesh, then twist your limbs, pull your hair and make you bleed too. Pretty broken bird: you won't live long enough to give him heirs. He'll take another queen and you'll be all but forgotten._

Why hadn't she come with him? All he'd done was tell her the truth, tell her how to mind and protect herself. And when he saw it would never be enough, that Joffrey would never stop hurting her, he'd offered to take her away, to keep her safe.

_Safe. Now you are lying, dog. You held a dagger to her throat and made her sing. How safe would she be with you now?_

He remembered, though he tried to forget, her sweet smell, even through the smell of the fires and the blood, and the gentle softness of her hand on his face.

That memory alone was enough to still his thoughts and to make yearning flood through him, to make his body warm and his chest heave and expand as he drew in a deep breath like a man who had been deprived of air.

He willed himself, as he had countless times before, not to care. He had gambled more, drank more, taken more whores, all to push her out of his mind. He'd watched his tourney gold slip away as other men raked his dragons into their purses when he pushed his luck too far at dice, seen coppers picked one by one off grimy tables as he was brought another flagon of sour red, and handed over silvers for younger, comelier wenches: fair or dark, never red-haired, to remind himself there were lots of pretty girls, ruined and unhappy girls, girls who chirped what men wanted to hear and did as they were bid, and that in the end they were all just cunts to be had and discarded, even a high lord's get.

Yet still she haunted his dreams, awake and asleep. He never thought of having her: she was too frightened of him, would never give herself, and even in his mind he was no raper. Sandor knew what it was to be held down and have your cries ignored; he'd kill with a swift, savage mercy but never draw out a death or pain. Instead he imagined her being undressed by her maids, stepping daintily into her bath and being washed with her eyes closed and mayhaps even humming sweetly. He pictured her round naked bottom and budding teats as she sat perched on a chair, having her gleaming, coppery hair brushed as sunlight streamed into her chamber. He sometimes tried to imagine her smiling and happy again, but he knew that if she were happy then she would never need him or his protection. Life took your happiness anyway, Sandor knew that: you had to grow hard and strong or die. It wasn't his fault the world was so terrible, but he'd learned to live in it. He'd become a dog, a butcher, a killer. But for a brief while, when she was still so innocent and bright, he saw and remembered what it was to want and to hope that everything would be fair and honourable; and then he saw it die as her eyes became dazed with gut-clenching hurt and grief and fear, just as it had died for him.

"You think too much, dog," he rasped impatiently to himself as he reached for a skin of ale.

He uncorked it with his teeth and drank deeply, twisting his mouth at the strong yeasty aftertaste. He thought of the fool Dontos, whose family's ruins he sat in, and how Joffrey had once threatened to drown him in a cask of wine and now he wished bitterly for that cask of wine himself. He'd surely drown himself in it, or at least try.

"Fuck them all," he spat as he drank again. 'I'm done here."

He'd take a ship to the Free Cities, he decided; there he'd never have to hear of the craven little shit Joffrey or of his bloody, bloodied queen again. He raised the skin once more, and drank it down.


	8. Chapter 8

"_Oh brothers, my brothers, my time here is done….the Blackwater's taken my life; but what does it matter for I'm for exile…" _He belched loudly. _"…'cause I've threatened the bastard king's wife."_

Sandor drained the last of the contents of the aleskin and tossed it lazily from where he sat sprawled against a sticky, sap-oozing tree with needles and pinecones squashed beneath his arse. We watched as a hobbled Stranger grazed sporadically in the patchy clearing outside the tree line, and his head lolled and his heart sank as he admired his magnificent courser.

Sandor had been days in the boggy fens and forests of Crackclaw Point, ever since the smallfolk he had met as he set off on the road to Maidenpool had warned him back.

"Turn back, m'lord," they said gloomily when he'd lied again that he was seeking his sister, "there be wolves comin' this way. Yer sister will'a fled or 'as hidden; yer needin' to do the same, likes us."

Sandor had been dubious that the Northern army should be marching on the Crownlands, especially when they must have heard that Lord Tywin had brought most of his army to King's Landing to win victory over Stannis on the Blackwater. But he'd turned back nevertheless, not wanting to be recognized if soldiers were travelling the roads at night as well.

Outside a fishing village, he'd stolen a towel off a line and torn strips to approximate bandages over his scars, covering even his eye so that he could approach fishermen asking for passage to Saltpans. Their answers had all been the same: they could take him, for a price, but there was no room for a horse in a small fishing vessel. He would needs leave Stranger behind.

"Seven fucking damnable hells," he cursed miserably now, "do I have to lose everything?"

He had not felt so bereft since his father had died. It had not just been just his grief but the sickening knowledge that Gregor had saved him for last. His brother was going to torment him and hurt him and cause him unbearable pain and enjoy his suffering for as long as it pleased him before he killed him too. And he knew it would be a long, slow, agonizing death. So when his last tie to Clegane's Keep was so violently and abruptly severed, he had set out when no one was looking to make a new life on his own. He'd been nigh twelve.

Now he was nearing thirty years, and he was setting out again to start a new life in a hot dry land across the Narrow Sea, to join a band of sellswords without even knowing if they would take him. The Golden Company was made of sons of exiled Westerosi nobles, and despite having no lands or titles they were still like to believe their shit didn't stink. Mayhaps they would think a dog and a deserter not good enough for their exalted ranks. He could always look to join the Second Sons, after all hadn't being second cursed him to this life of service? Fuck, he's risen to Kingsguard and now he would needs prove himself all over again, prove his ferocity, his skills and his loyalty.

Or mayhaps he would still have enough dragons left to go off and live simply, to buy a small house and land enough for a patch of garden and some animals and carry off a poor wench to wash and cook and warm his bed. He could hunt and chop wood…and keep his horse.

Sandor closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the tree, inhaling deeply the scent of woods and fresh air. Even in his drunken stupor, he could remember the verdant hills and valleys around Clegane's Keep where he'd played as a boy, with his sister and then alone, later hunting rabbits and foraging for nuts and berries and finding places to hide and live if he needed to run away.

_Gregor._

It had been Gregor he'd needed to hide from, Gregor the reason he'd run away, Gregor the reason he's been exhausted trying to fight surrounded by the fires on the Blackwater. All his life it had been Gregor. He was the reason no one could look upon his face without pity or revulsion; that is if they could bring themselves to look at him at all. He was the reason he had been so loyal to the lions, and had become a fierce and loyal dog and savage fighter. And he was the reason he could never have what other men took for granted: family, a wife and legitimate children and any lands or titles that they could inherit.

Searing hot hate rose inside of him, and along with it the familiar taste of bile and the memory of the smell of his own scorched flesh and of agonizing pain and helpless loss. He fumblingly snatched and pulled at the bandages he had affected to go about unrecognized as he sought passage by sea and bought hardbread and cheap, sour ale from fishwives. He determinedly seized a sac within reach of where he sat and dragged it towards him, yanking it open and tossing it aside when he found what he was searching for. He held it up to his face and examined it with narrowed eyes. His grey snarling hound helm stared emptily back at him.

"Fuck disguises. Fuck hiding. Fuck Essos. Fuck the fucking Golden Company and fuck to seven hells and back Tywin bloody Lannister and his bounty of shat-out gold. You're the Hound, dog, and a hound pursues his prey relentlessly until he's found it. You're going to find Gregor, and then you're going to _kill_ him."

They said the man who kills his own blood is cursed forever in the sight of gods and men. Well, he had no use for gods and he had always been regarded as cursed by men, and high-born girls, so what matter. He'd kill his brother, or die trying.

No wonder he'd been wandering aimlessly, he gave his head a slow pensive shake: he'd forgotten who he was and what fate had always awaited him. He gave a short, mirthless snort. Doubtless Gregor would have heard that he'd deserted: he'd think his little brother had turned craven and had lost his belly for fighting. He had probably laughed.

"Let him laugh," rasped Sandor spitefully. That way, he'd never hear him coming.


	9. Chapter 9

Bodies were being loaded into wagons, stripped of their armour and clothing and boots, it was all but impossible to identify who had fought the battle much less who had won. Sandor called out to ask.

"You men, who fought here?" he shouted from a distance sitting astride Stranger. Though he had abandoned any disguise, he still wore the hood of his cloak up in the misty rain.

"Lord Tarly's rid this part o'the realm o'the bloody wolves," one man spat. "Chased'em back to the Riverlands and took Maidenpool for good measure. That's where he be now."

He and another man swung and tossed the skinny corpse of a boy onto a wagon. Sandor judged him no more than one or two-and-ten at best, likely a newly-made squire or smallfolk lad who ran off to be a foot soldier. He had deep bloody stab wounds to his hairless torso. Sandor's brow knit together.

"Was the Young Wolf with them?" Sandor asked.

"Nay, least they say not: no sign of that unnatural beast o'his anyway."

Sandor saw other carts of bodies waiting as men dug a deep trench by the sea, likely a common grave. It looked to be hard work and a tedious business, the digging of graves. He felt himself sneer. When he found his brother, he'd burn him and leave no marker to show he'd ever lived or died.

"Hope yer making for King's Landing," the man called to him now, "th'woods beyond will be full o'broken men and deserters most like, and true wolves a'plenty, they're sayin'. You'll be wantin' to keep well aways."

"They'll be wanting to keep well away from _me_," Sandor rasped defiantly before spurring Stranger across the road and towards the woods.

As he rode away, he wondered what has sent the Northern army to Duskendale. Had they meant to join forces with Stannis? Sandor could not believe that Stannis would agree to an alliance that would see his rightful kingdom divided by half, nor the Stark boy bend the knee after claiming himself King in the North.

He remembered the lad from Winterfell, how he had nearly bested Joffrey in the yard before the whiskered old fool of a master-at arms had deemed it a draw and called the younger boys to fight. Joffrey had then suggested live steel and the Stark boy had agreed unhesitatingly, eager to prove himself though the goat-knight had forbidden it. Well, he'd proved himself more than able to wield live steel since calling his banners, Sandor had to admit grudgingly, though he'd lost his own land to the Greyjoy upstart. Sandor remembered him too: smug and mouthy and randy with the wenches in the winter town outside the walls where Sandor had gone drinking one night. He reminded Sandor of the Imp, only tall and not ugly like the dwarf. They would have done better to have put him to death when they stormed Pyke but Lord Stark had taken him for a hostage. Well, the rotten shit had got his own back on the Starks now.

"Seems you're not the only one in the Seven Kingdoms out for revenge, dog," he told himself mockingly.

He'd scarcely noticed the little bird at Winterfell, the spoiled children of high lords held no interest for him, though they had seemingly no end of trouble befall them. First there had been the boy that fell from a broken tower, Sandor remembered too well the bloody wolf pup howling all night and Joffrey complaining it kept him from his sleep. Then there had been the business with the wolf-pets on the Kingsroad, when Cersei had called for her wolf to be executed in place of the other one. Odd pet for the little bird; more suited to the younger whelp who went about like a boy. That one had been angry and called the prince a liar and a craven in front of the whole court, Sandor had heard later; whereas the little bird had only pleaded and shed tears.

"A taste of what was to come," he rasped bitterly. Well the one was dead and the other trapped and likely better off dead but they were neither of them his worry, not anymore. He had family of his own to deal with, and better off dead as well.

By evenfall, Sandor slowed his pace to begin looking for a place to camp. Much of Crownlands on the path he followed towards the Riverlands had been scorched and stripped. He had seen and smelled dead bodies along the wayside and seen the shells of gutted cottages and pens and stables. Soon he smelled woodsmoke and turned to follow, his stomach clenching in hunger. Further into the trees he spotted a small cottage standing and, dismounting, he approached it on foot. He heard voices inside and knocked. There was a sudden quiet, followed by urgent whispering. He threw the door open in time to see a small family seeking to hide.

"I need food," he rasped, "I can pay."

A woman stood against the wall with her children huddled around her. An older man stood helpless and unarmed. None would look at him.

"T-take what ye' want," he told Sandor, "an' leave us unharm'd."

"I have coin," Sandor repeated harshly.

"Take what ye' want," the man said again desperately, "an' leave us."

Sandor saw food on the table, some scrawny sausage and apples. He could take it all, and leave them nothing; the man's idiotic helplessness infuriated him. He drew his dagger suddenly, and he heard gasps and a whimper. Ignoring them, he cut an end of a sausage and wolfed it down, slicing himself a wedge of apple as he did. He sheathed his dagger and turned to the man.

"Have you anything to feed my horse?" he asked now.

Still the man looked down. "Take what ye' need…"

"And leave you," he spat out, disgusted. As he turned to go, he spotted some carrots in a bucket. They were small and raggedy but he took two. He pinched two coppers from his purse and tried to hand them to the man who would not budge, so he turned to set them on the table. His eyes met those of a boy, standing with his hand on the small shoulder of a girl who was hiding her face in her mother's skirt. The boy looked away quickly, but Sandor could see that he was angry as well as fearful. He remembered suddenly how he and his sister had held hands when they hid under tables or behind doors as Gregor stalked the keep looking for them, as though clinging to each other would save one from being carried off when he found them. It never worked, and it was Sandor taken more often than his sister, though he could still see her eyes as she was dragged away from him the last time…

"You protect your sister," he rasped at the boy.

It was not a question. His hand went again to his purse and he put something down on the table near the lad, who looked up at him in puzzlement and then back to the table. Sandor backed out of the cottage, leaving the little pale gold ring he had taken off the hapless, would-be horse thief on the road to Rosby.


	10. Chapter 10

He was wet, he was cold and he was hungry but he cursed and cursed that he had no wine: the sweat and the shakes were upon him so that there were times he almost wished to die.

Sandor had been wandering the ravaged Riverlands, following a path of bloody death and destruction. Some smallfolk told him it was the wolves. Others told him it was the lions. Still others blamed mummers or a brotherhood of outlaws. There was talk of a great she-wolf who hunted with a savage pack, and Sandor had heard their howling at night, but the only beast he searched was another dog of House Clegane: his brother the Mountain.

Gregor had held Harrenhal before the battle of Duskendale; but now a Lord of the North sat the Great Hall, or mayhaps he had left as well. No one seemed certain of anything and so he rode searching aimlessly as the sky pissed rain so that even when he caught rabbits he often could not cook them so he traded them at rickety, filthy, empty inns for stale bread and hard cheese and some ale if he were lucky.

He hadn't been very lucky.

He had begun to think he should return instead to the Westerlands, to live in the forests far from the fighting and lie in wait for Gregor to return to his keep. He would be with only his own men then, and not an army; mayhaps he would even be alone. Once he'd killed him, he could then find the Young Wolf and offer his sword to help him reclaim the North or rescue the little bird. If the Stark boy succeeded in making Joffrey pay for offing his father's head, then Sandor could hope to inherit his family's keep and lands. He'd want no more than what was his by right.

_Lord Clegane, dog, how does that sound to you? You'll be your own dog for true, with men in your service and mayhaps even a lady wife and pups to inherit. _He laughed scornfully at himself even as his mouth twitched.

Young Wolf sounded like he needed help: Sandor still could not shake his doubts about Duskendale. How had the boy come to spread his army so thin, and to the south as well? Heavy losses, he'd heard in his wanderings, men needed to retake his kingdom from the Ironborn. He had no allies and too many enemies, he needed to gather all his forces together and turn to one foe at a time. Certainly the boy had been taught that much as a lord's son.

Sandor's teaching by the maester at Clegane's Keep had been cut short at a young age. When Gregor had beaten the man in frustration at his own slow learning, his lessons came to an end along with Sandor's. The maester had reasoned that Sandor be allowed to continue: he showed an understanding for strategy and history, the man had said, and could even learn Valarian. He told his master that his second son could be a leader of men someday, but Sandor's father had been adamant: his boys would learn arms and be knights and loyal bannermen to Lord Tywin. Once again, Gregor's brutal actions had determined the path of Sandor's life.

Meanwhile Sandor wanted to kill someone, or at least he wanted to fuck someone; and he wanted wine and he wanted a dry bed.

Riding south again, he saw the hill in the distance, the one with a ring of stumps they called High Heart. They said it was safe because you could see anyone approaching from the top, but Sandor just hoped it was drier that beneath the dripping trees where he had been sleeping.

There he built a small fire and set a young rabbit to roast. As he watched the sparks swirl upward in the wind and listened to the crackle of flames, he leaned on a stump and stretched his legs out and waited for his meal.

"_Oh brothers, my brothers, my times here's not done: the Mountain's not long for this life; but what does it matter for all men must die, and I'll then have my own keep and wife."_

Stranger nickered and pranced skittishly and Sandor put his hand on the pommel of his sword. A tiny, old woman, smaller than the Imp, walked out from behind the horse: she had wild, white hair and deathly pale skin and she walked towards him leaning heavily on a gnarled cane.

"Are you the singer?" she asked him.

"Aye, crone: the burned bard, they call me," he rasped sneeringly.

"Sign my Jenny's song then," she ordered him.

"Another cunt who made a man a fool. Why are you here, hag: to make me look pretty?"

She glared at him with red eyes. "Give me wine," she croaked.

Sandor hooted. "If I had wine, I'd drink it myself. I can give you some rabbit when it's done, or I can put you in the ground: your choice," he offered gruffly.

"Many will you have to put in the ground before you make things right again," she cackled.

He patted his pommel again. "That I mean to do, hag."

She shook her white head. "Not every man dies from a sword; some die from poison."

Sandor sneered again. "Poison'd be a woman's weapon."

"Aye, but they'll blame the wrong woman, and the wrong bird."

"You talk bloody nonsense, woman." Sandor removed the rabbit from the spit and tore her a haunch.

"I speak of dreams, and I see you, burned dog: I see you chase a wolf-girl."

Sandor stared before answering. "I left the wolf-girl behind," he rasped. "I chase my brother. Do you see where _he_ is, hag?"

"The wolf-girl will leave you behind. You will not find a brother; a brother will find you, find you when you can no longer chase anymore." She poked her stick at him. "To find the mountain you seek, you must go by the moon."

Sandor still held out the leg of rabbit to her. "Don't make me change my mind, crone; I can still put you in the ground."

"I would be in ground, I think: it is hard to be so old, to have lost all," she started to sniffle, and her ancient face seemed to sag even more in grief.

"Sit, old woman," Sandor said. "I'll sing you a different song, a bawdy one from winesinks…"

"I'd rather wine," she snapped once more.

"Aye, me too."

They both heard wolves howling in the distance.


	11. Chapter 11

**Warning for violence. Thanks to JuliaAurelia for the red hair reference.**

It had not rained for two days, and the lingering smell of a fire carried in the air. Sandor followed it, hoping to scrounge whatever may have been left by fleeing crofters or villagers, just as he had searched the bodies of any dead soldiers he had come across. He usually found nothing: most were already stripped of coin, arms or boots, but he also checked for sigils or any other sign of who he was finding or following. They were mostly Northmen, either alone or in pairs, so that he concluded they were deserters or mayhaps stragglers caught with their guard down.

"But who's killing them, dog, armies or outlaws? Stay alert, Stranger: we're not the only two black-hearted beasts in this forest." He rubbed Stranger's neck approvingly.

He dismounted when he spotted the charred remains of the cottage, some of its walls still standing but the contents gutted. He swung his head, looking for a patch of garden, but instead fell on the remains of a man beneath a tree, his belly torn open and his entrails pulled out. His eyes had been pecked by crows. Sandor's mouth twisted; he hoped the man had been well and truly dead before the scavengers came for him. When he turned his head again, he saw why the man had been propped up and left to die slowly.

A woman was bent over a chopping stump, the back of her shift torn open and dried blood down her legs and on her behind. Sandor judged her to have been young, though the face that hung down was so mottled purple as to be any age. It was framed by a bloody, tangled mess of red hair: the paler, carroty-red of the low-born, not the deep, rich copper he remembered but that he still associated with a young girl. The clotted handle of some tool stuck out of her head where it had been deeply buried and it was like to have been the same one used to drive the spikes through her hands, holding her down over the stump.

Battle-hardened as he was, Sandor felt his guts churn, so that he braced his hands on his knees and retched the meager, hard-foraged contents of his stomach between his boots. Instinctively, he stepped towards a rain barrel to rinse his mouth but when he knocked the lid aside, the pale bloated face of a child bobbed beneath the water, its small fists seeming to reach upward in helpless appeal.

He vomited and spat bile this time, wiping it hastily with his sleeve before seizing Stranger's reins and riding away as soon as he gained the saddle. His head spun and his heart pounded for he was certain that he was following his brother now: for, to his mind, none but Gregor and his men would use such slow and deliberate torture in burning out and murdering a family of crofters. Lord Tywin himself had sent his fiercest bannerman to raid through the Riverlands when Lord Stark was still Hand, and Gregor had proven himself as loyal to the Lannisters as Sandor had once been.

That thought sickened him again, just as his burning hate seemed to scorch his lungs as he drew a deep breath. He spurred Stranger to ride faster.

Past midday, Sandor approached an inn where he had once traded a rabbit for a meal. It had been dark and raining then and they had not paid him much mind but he hesitated to approach in daytime until he knew who was inside. He dismounted and walked slowly behind the stable and stood still when he heard voices.

"…they'll know we didn't ride to King's Landing with Lor' Marbrand: they'll know us for deserters."

"We'll tell'em our horses were stolen, an' that we stole others to get back. They won't know, I tell'ye. Marbrand's still in King's Landin' anyways, it's the Mountain leadin' the ambush, an' he won't know us. This fight'll turn things our way again: those northern wolves'll be butchered."

"Aye, Ashemark'll be freed o'the wolves an' we can go back'ome. We'll win back 'ut we lost at Oxcross."

"So where we goin' then? Harrenhal? That place gives me a bad feelin'…"

"Nah; up the Trident: they're gonna catch'em on the banks. Why're you still shakin' your'ead?"

"The Mountain. What'f he_ knows_ we deserted?"

"We'll give'im som'our loot: we've gold, arms…he'll take 'is cut an' be happy."

Sandor began to back away as he heard them mount up; three from the sounds of it, heading out to find Gregor, just as he was. He smoothed Stranger's mane and patted his neck as he waited for them to ride away, then followed.

He had not gone far before he found them again, stopped by a stream to eat and go through sacs of stolen goods. Sandor quietly drew his sword as he approached. The first one was easy.

"Save me som'o that cheese, I'ma goin' to shit,' he said carelessly as he stood to walk away.

Sandor swung his sword as soon as the man's eyes met his, and his head flew off and his body dropped with a soft clank of armour. The other two drew their swords but neither came at him, looking at him warily.

"Yer th'Hound," one said, "we're goin' to join yer brother so…"

"And where will he be?" Sandor rasped harshly, stepping towards the man. He had a faded badge of House Marbrand on his tunic: a flaming tree. The sight of flame only made Sandor angrier.

"S-some crossin' near the Twins: the Young Wolf is marchin' North…"

"Good enough," Sandor sneered, and attacked. The man parried as the other circled behind him, so he cut low and ran his sword through his leg and turned on the other as the first fell wounded. His opponent was quick but small and so Sandor brought his sword down again and again, wearing him out with having to block high at his blows until the man faltered. Sandor cut him through from his shoulder almost to his waist, and blood poured out thickly. He turned back just as the first was struggling to rise again and easily knocked his sword out of his hand and the man off his feet again.

"Mercy," the man with the flaming sigil sobbed, "we was goin' back."

Sandor drew his dagger. "Here's all the mercy I know," he told him, and plunged his blade into the man's heart.

Now he stood and cut each horse's bridle and saddle girth, pulling off their tack and slapping them hard on the rump to make them run off. Then he turned back to their camp and went through their sacs. He left the arms and took the gold and coin, as well as a good pair of boots, then picked up a sac to take their food. The sac was heavy and so he looked inside to see several skins. He uncapped one and sniffed, then threw back his head and laughed.

His luck had changed.


	12. Chapter 12

The dying rays of the setting sun sparkled faintly through the long thin branches of the willow beneath which he rested, leagues from where he had left the three dead Westermen, already forgotten but for their skins of wine. He squinted whenever the sun shone too brightly in his eyes, and grunted at the intrusion to his comfort. He knew he should be readying to travel further at nightfall but the wine, dark red and sour and strong, was the first he had tasted since he had fled King's Landing and he could not keep from giving in, as he always did, to the sweet oblivion it provided.

He patted his armour, feeling the somewhat fatter purse that the deserters' gold and coin had enriched, and admired his new boots. He felt very confident and determined, sure now that he had chosen the right path for himself since leaving King's Landing.

"Just needed to be the Hound again, dog: do what you do best," he rasped, raising the skin once more.

He swung his head, looking for his helm, and scoffed to discover he felt dizzy.

"Not used to wine anymore, dog?" He mocked himself. "We'll have to remedy that," he noted as he drank again.

The last time he'd had wine was the night the Blackwater had caught fire, when he'd passed out waiting for the little bird in her chamber.

"_Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…"_ he trailed off dispiritedly. He raised the skin and lowered it again without drinking.

"Better pray to save your brother from Gregor, little bird," he rasped aloud, "seems he's coming for him."

He would needs wait for his chance to kill his brother, surrounded as he would be now by Lord Tywin's army on the march. Going to ambush the boy's army marching North, the soldiers had said. His brother's forces had been defeated earlier at another crossing at Stone Mill, he had heard; now it seemed Gregor's luck had improved as well-

Sandor fumbled to sit up, his hand slipping in the grass, and his brow furrowed as he realized the terrible truth.

"He's betrayed."

The Young Wolf had won every battle, had even bested the Lord of Casterly Rock at strategy. And yet soon after the old lion and all his gold became Hand again, the Northern army had marched on Duskendale, and there they had been waiting for him. Sandor had seen them, but had not seen that the trap and the rout had already been set. Someone had determined he liked Lord Tywin's odds for victory better than the King of the North's chances, and mayhaps had been well rewarded for it.

"Seven buggering hells," he breathed, "one of his own is Lord Tywin's man now. He's leading him straight to Gregor."

Sandor again remembered the maester's lessons at Clegane's Keep and Gregor's dumb incomprehension of anything that required him to think or plan. Put the Mountain in the vanguard and he'll kill fiercely and mercilessly and even show some instinct as to where his opponent may move or what he may do, but to plan strategy or out-manoeuvre an entire army was beyond the capacity of his meagre brains, which Sandor had often wagered were not enough to fill a lady's thimble and had just as often wished to cleave his big, dumb head to see for himself. Someone would have told Gregor to wait at the crossing on the Trident to ambush the wolves.

He wondered dully what would happen if the boy was defeated or killed. Would Joffrey set the little bird aside, or mayhaps marry her to whoever was fucking her lord brother up his arse, for surely that man would want to claim Winterfell with all the other Stark whelps dead. Poor wretched lass: the pretty little bird wed either to the man who offed her father's head or the one who betrayed her brother.

His eyes widened and he slumped back against the trunk of the willow.

_The Kingslayer._

Had Tywin Lannister given no thought to his son? If whoever held the Kingslayer prisoner should execute him in revenge for the death of the Stark boy, the little bird's life would be forfeit. Cersei would insist on blood for blood and Joffrey would let her have it. He would gladly see the little bird condemned, just to enjoy her fear and helplessness.

Seven hells, if he let his guards beat the little bird when she was to be his queen, what would he not let them do if she were to be executed? He thought of the filthy, cruel oafs who guarded the black cells and the wine churned in his belly. There would be little left of her to kill, just a broken and empty shell. Payne's sword would be the last of her sufferings, the blow that ended it.

Sandor's breath rushed out of him like he had taken a blow to the stomach.

_No._

Could he find the boy in time, and warn him? Would he even believe him?

_A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._

But he would not believe him; he was Sandor Clegane, the Hound, the Lannister dog. He would think him a liar and that he was leading him into a trap, or that he simply hoped to win a place in his service after deserting. The boy would not listen to a craven deserter who had lost his belly for fighting; he would not want him at all. Even if he could find him; but seven hells, he hadn't even been able to find his own brother, the Mountain, the biggest man in Westeros.

He sneered and raised the wine to his mouth again, draining the skin. All lost: all the Starks, and the little bird with them. Of course it would be Gregor, when had Gregor not taken everything…

Well, he could still kill him: he had reason before and mayhaps would have more reason now.

His head slumped forward suddenly and so he shook it. He should rest, he pondered heavily, and travel by night again. He would ride up the Trident: what had he to lose now? He would find Gregor or he would find Robb Stark. He looked over at Stranger, hobbled and hidden beneath the long branches of the great willow, as he was. He pulled his bedroll over and lay his head down.

"Jus' sleep a little now, dog, an' travel by night. May'aps you'll find th'wolf king first…"

Sandor closed his eyes, and he slept.


	13. Chapter 13

EPILOGUE

Sandor stood in the dark of the ruined village, wretched and shivering from the cold pouring rain that had soaked him right through and clenching his chattering teeth from the pain in his arm where he'd been burned. His bandages were drenched and they chaffed against the raw blistered skin and he winced and raged inwardly to remember how he'd sobbed for help after pushing off the burning shield and frantically smothering the flames on his sleeve.

_The many-times-dead bastard of a knight had fought with fire, and I killed him once more for it; but he's not dead._

Sandor had laughed when they'd sentenced him to trial by combat: he'd thought none of them could defeat him, a mangy, ragged lot of outlaws and broken men who called themselves a brotherhood. He thought it would be good practice for killing his own brother…until he saw the flaming sword. All at once there seemed to be fire all around him, just like the bloody Blackwater, from the bastard Dondarrion's blade, from the flaming pit that had seemed to keep creeping up behind him and then on his own shield and arm.

Now the only thing that burned was his own fury, his angry humiliation at having been captured in the first place. He'd been caught while sleeping and surrounded by a pack of vicious hunting dogs and a more vicious huntsman who had bound him and brought him on his horse to the walled village of Stoney Sept. He'd brought him further south when he needed to ride north, to ride like hell to the Trident to find the Young Wolf and warn him of betrayal and treachery and of Gregor. The murderous huntsman had thought to leave him to die in a crow cage with the commons throwing rocks and shit at him. They thought it his due to die slowly of heat and rain and thirst and starvation, thought that he had been raping and burning and pillaging like Gregor and the other Lannister soldiers, and like the wolves too, to hear them tell it; even the fucking brotherhood had tried to lay his brother's brutal crimes at his feet.

He spat bitterly even now to remember their pathetic accusations, all because he was a Clegane. Sandor remembered the dead and mutilated crofter family he had seen, with the child drowned in a rain barrel: fuck if he'd let that sorry lot blame such a horror on him. He'd fought and he'd killed but he had never tortured or raped, and he'd certainly never burned. He hadn't even stolen until he took the loot from the dead Westermen soldiers; he'd paid for everything he'd ate and drank. Now they hadn't left him a single copper to buy food or drink, especially drink; and when he'd confronted them for the thieves they were, they told him they'd used it all to buy food and seed for the poxy smallfolk he'd been paying for hardbread and cheap ale. Dondarrion even had the bloody balls to write him a note for the sum to be paid after the wars: all nine thousand dragons. Fuck his paper: his paper wouldn't buy him shit while he shivered and starved and sweat for lack of wine.

_Many will you have to put in the ground before you make things right again_, the old crone had told him; and he'd gladly kill every last one of them…but Sandor wanted, no, he needed the wolf-girl.

The little bird's little sister: everyone had thought her dead, he scoffed now, but she had lived and the miserable little bitch had wanted him dead. She'd thrown the killing of her butcher's boy at him just when the others had failed to find him guilty of any crime to try to justify their killing _him_ like a dog. She'd screamed at him to burn in hell when he won his trial, fucking fought savagely for his life and _won_. Well, he'd burned and now he was in hell. He'd had to follow them north again, to Riverrun if he understood well their plan to ransom the wolf-bitch to her brother. He'd had to follow slowly and far behind in the constant downpours after challenging them for his gold because he'd heard Dondarrion order the archers to kill Stranger if they sighted him again.

So he'd suffered the hunger and his pain and the cold and the bloody endless pissing rain in hopes of claiming the brat. He was chasing a wolf-girl just like the old hag had said he would, but Sandor knew that she was the key to making the Young Wolf accept him. If he brought him his missing sister, then he would have to listen to him about the betrayal against him, about Duskendale and the crossing to the Twins: the boy needed him; he just didn't know it yet. If he had any brains at all, he'd take him into his service and let him kill Gregor. Mayhaps he'd even reward him with gold or lands-

The little bird would see then, if he helped her brother, if he saved her family: she'd see he'd meant to protect her. She would know that he would keep her safe. She'd look at him then.

He peered ahead suddenly when the lightning flashed and he saw something dart out in the darkness. He crept carefully behind a mossy crumbled wall, not wanting to be spotted by the outlaws and wary of Stranger being seen where he had left him when he heard him whiny uneasily at the thunder. There was another bolt of lightning, and Sandor could not believe his luck: the wolf girl was running away, running straight to him so that she barrelled into him when she turned behind the wall. He quickly closed his hand around her arm.

"You're hurting me," she complained and tried to free herself, just like her sister had, he thought fleetingly.

"Let _go_, I was going to go back, I…"

"Back?" He laughed with a mocking triumph: he knew that he had won now. "Bugger that, wolf girl. You're _mine_."

With grim satisfaction and a hard yank, Sandor pulled the prize little bitch off her feet, and dragged her through the mud and the pouring rain to mount Stranger.

FINIS


End file.
